AliveDead
by lyn89
Summary: If he didn't feel like he was dying he could say that he'd never felt so alive.


Title: AliveDead Author: lyn89 E-Mail: Feedback: If it's not too much trouble.  
Archive: Sure, just let me know.  
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. Let's skip this broken record.  
Rating: PG Category: VA Spoilers: Post-Requiem Keywords: MulderAngst, SkinnerAngst Author's Note: Alternate take on Mulder's return from being abducted. No idea where this story came from, just about to fall asleep one night and it came to me.  
Summary: If he didn't feel like he was dying he could say that he'd never felt so alive.

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AliveDead

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He is nothing but empty pockets. Leaning against the stone building he sits and watches them go by. Moving forward and walking past, they ignore his plight and give only isolation.

Out of some sick inner desperation, his body continues on. Blood still pumping and heart still beating, by definition he is alive. Life. To him it is nothing but lying down.

His right hand almost seems stiff. Fingers are curved upward to show a gray palm. He begs for whatever they can give. He is never lucky.

Sitting on the street he watches them pass him by. All who seem so happy, so careless to the darkness that surrounds him. They wear bright clothes, steamed and pressed, fresh and new. He wears a suit but can't recall where he got it from. It's an old one though. The cuffs have worn away from the extensive use and the shoulders have hardened due to excessive moisture and mildew. The once white dress shirt is stained yellow from sweat and vomit. Dress pants just barely hang onto his thin hips.

His sole uniform just clings to him by a thread. A fear might be that if the wind blew just strong enough it would simply fall apart. As would he.

Sometimes others who are like him feel sympathy. Sometimes they bring him scrapes of food since he is never fortunate enough to scourge any. Sometimes. They have all left him now. He is not worth the trouble, to beg extra for a sick and thin creature.

If he is lucky he finds a wrapper from an old hamburger with some mustard and mayonnaise soaked onto the paper. But then he is rarely lucky.

When the others were with him, they used to talk to him. Even though he never had the strength to reply back, he enjoyed to conversation. Watching the smiling faces pass him by he remembers one conversation.

"What do you dream of?"

Dream? What would that be? His mind is clouded and muddy. A man with nothing to think of has nothing to dream of. He is nothing but an empty shell, waiting to be filled with the next story.

While lying on used TV boxes with the others he would often stare at the sky. He understood nothing of its significance but it brought him comfort. And when sleep would visit him, his mind would become an empty void. No stars or moon to brighten the darkness, only the shadows offered him solace.

But they are all gone now. He assumes it has happened once before. Before he was an empty man. Maybe he was something more. A somebody with a someone.

Sometimes someone would look at him. And for a moment he thought he might understand them. Might be able to read into them. To detect their behavior; their very soul. But they leave him, as do they all.

It has begun to rain.

It is going to be a bad storm. Still he sits against the wall. Hand stretched out and fingers fixed in place. Like a statue, he is nothing. He has no reason no explain why he begs. Perhaps it is a blessing that he doesn't think about himself and his role in the grand scheme of things like all those around him. He almost smiles at that thought. To have nothing is to be blessed?

The rain hits him harder now. Rain splashes in his face burning his eyes, but he doesn't flinch. The footsteps are more erratic than before. People rushing by in a desperate attempt to get indoors.

Like him, they too have become desperate. If only they felt this way they maybe they would look at him and feel something other than disgust.

Despite the cold his body is flushed and he begins to feel hot. Closing his eyes he allows his mouth to open wider, taking in the fresh, moist air. It feels wonderful. A drink from the gods, and he laps up as much as he can.

If he didn't feel like he was dying he could say that he'd never felt so alive.

His eyes open to the foggy gray world. Out of the storm a hand reaches out to him. A figure cloaked in darkness kneels down to see his eyes.

Was it Death coming to claim him as his own?

Firm and wrinkled hands wrapped around his soggy gray fingers. The hand pulled his wrists down to his side. There was no need to beg anymore.

Droplets submerge his eyes and his vision worsens. It is a man, a tall man. He looks down at him, not in disgust like all the others, but in pity. The shadowed man removes his trench coat and wraps it around him.

If only he could tell the man how hot he already was and how the coat only made it worse. Still, he knows it is cold outside and he is shielded from the wet.

He allows himself to be cloaked in the shadows. The man leans forward tugging on his worn and ragged clothes. The seams tear under his strength as he pulls him up.

His body goes slack under the stranger's weight. Like a limp rag doll his limbs slacken and his head flops back. His mouth opens ingesting more of pouring rain.

A strong hand grabs his neck and pulls his head forward towards his. Before the darkness engulfs him completely he listens to hear the man's sadness.

"Mulder."

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Finish

End Notes: So for some reason I though maybe the aliens weren't nice enough to drop him off near a hospital with him memories intact. And then my mind got real dark and I thought 'what if he was homeless?' Poor Mulder.

I need feedback like I need to breathe. 


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